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I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine, but out of all the seats in the movie theater, you picked the empty one next to me to sit in, and don’t you think I didn’t notice.

I know that the seat next to me was practically the only seat left by the time you got here. I know that. I can’t help but wonder why you didn’t sit in the aisle, though. It’s so much easier to get to the restrooms from there and, judging from the jug of cola you’ve produced there, I imagine you’ll be taking a few trips there. You’re so round. What’s that like?

Is it like being a warm snow man, bound in leather?

If it gets scary, may I grab your arm? If it gets romantic, may I place my hand on your knee? I won’t move my fingers–I promise. If it gets thoroughly adrenaline-rush-y, can I punch you in the arm until the hormone spike goes away? These are the things I ask of those I attend movies with. You may have noticed that the seat next to me was empty. Perhaps this sheds some light on that.

You smell strangely, stranger, and I don’t want to be rude, but I’m going to have to lean far away from you for a few breaths every now and then. Don’t you dare lean away from me, though. I want your muffin top to spill over onto the arm rest like slow-moving lava. I want to be your Pompeii. Rain your ass on me. Oh, did I say ass? I meant ash. But you know what I mean.

[Editor’s Note: What do you mean?]

[Kyle’s Note: Editor! What are you doing in here?! This is a private letter!]

[Editor’s Note: You put this on my desk.]

[Kyle’s Note: I had to set it down while I took pictures of myself humping all your stuff.]

[Editor’s Note: … ]

Please don’t text, stranger. The light is so distracting. I know you’re busy, though. I understand that you’re going to have to text a little bit. I can tell by the loose-fitting Slipknot shirt that assures me that you’re fresh off of a big business meeting. Your long, stringy hair has that “Euro-trash” vibe that the less cultured eye might miss–but not me. I don’t miss it. I don’t miss a thing.

I don’t wanna miss a thing.

Stranger, when the film is over, which way down the aisle will we walk? Will you be the guide? I’ll let you lead. When the credits begin to roll, I’ll stay in my seat while you decide; I don’t want to pressure you. Then, you get up and make up your mind. I’m not going to tell you what to do. You make your own rules big guy–just like how you decided that it’d be best to mix your Milk Duds in with your bucket of delicious, glistening popcorn. You’re an innovator and a snacking pioneer.

Can you give me the recipe to your popcorn/Milk Dud combo? How many parts popcorn to how many parts Milk Dud?

Can it be eaten with a fork?

Oh, cool, you’re not even using your hands–you’re just kind of bringing the whole bucket up to your face and eating out of it like a horse with a feedbag.

You know what? That’s kind of gross. And you won’t stop playing games on your phone–which is worse than texting because it isn’t productive in any way whatsoever. I’ve had my hand up to block the light for roughly three minutes now. How do you not know why I’m doing that?

And I’m starting to think that you don’t care about your hygiene or your appearance at all, because there’s butter and Milk Dud all over your face and you didn’t even bring any napkins. If you wipe that junk onto your arm, I’m going to throw up.

Okay, you did it.

I’m leaving. Get–get back. Move your feet back, you idiot; I have to step over them. What are those? Are those Sketchers? Is this a pit stop on the way to a Christian pre-teen camp? Get it together, dude.